


Dark Corridors

by MaladaptiveNinjaReturns



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, male receiving, shameless sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:55:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaladaptiveNinjaReturns/pseuds/MaladaptiveNinjaReturns





	Dark Corridors

There is something about these lights. The dim-lit corridors with just a single subtle line of blue guiding you to the equally lit floors but with strobe lights and a lot of people. The place smells of alcohol, smoke machine and something citrusy going about in the air. Smells like pent up emotions just waiting to get out and have fun. Smells like the edged nerves before sex.

Everyone here is with someone. Tables filled up with friends buzzed into the night. Booths filled up with couples with hands roaming each other without any restrictions. There is something about this place.

Talking of place...

Your eyes wander farther than the barstool you come to settle on, ordering your usual. Why you are doing this, you're not sure yourself. It wasn't supposed to be like this. You were not supposed to be like this.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since you came here with your girlfriends to get away from the mental torture of finding out stains of lipstick on your boyfriend's shirt, his clothes reeking of the lingering feminine perfume that had grown stronger day by day. Three weeks since you ordered four Long Islands for yourself, wanting to just let it all slip away- your senses, your emotions, your body. Most of all...your tears.

Tears don't come that easy when there's a need for them. So, there is a need to go about finding dark corners inside and out to find a point of no light to help you make yourself bare. Three weeks since you did slip away from the bar to find yourself up the stairs walking in dark corridors, trying to find a perfect corner. Three weeks since something in the darkness touched you.

At first, it was a graze along your clothes, almost so light to be missed for a breeze. Then, it turned a little curious, the touch rising up your back before finding its way down. The curiosity had given way to a filthy need when fingers seemed to reach down your skirt, your mouth clamped shut with fingers so that no noise came out as they tried to get their way.

You don't remember what it was exactly- the buzz, the flight response or the need to just lock your teeth onto something really hard- but you were biting down on those fingers trying to shut you up, making a gurgling scream leave a man as you tried to run away, only to run into something hard at the end of the corridor.

You would have mistaken him for a wall if it hadn't been for the moonlight bouncing off him, colouring his dark skin a glittering blue from his neck all the way up that sharp jaw carrying a thick stubble, going further up to be met by intricate dreadlocks on one side.

You were thankful for the hold of those strong arms around you, breaking the otherwise drunken gait that would have landed you headfirst down. But thankful as you were, you were scared. Scared by the dark eyes looking like smokey quartz polished to perfection by the creator himself. Scared when those pair of quartz looked down at you, into you, all over you, before loosening their grip on you and walking right into the darkness you'd run away from, bringing out wails that could raise the dead and kill the living.

But nothing in your life seemed to have given you as cathartic an experience as when you watched him come back out, unscathed by the unseen.

There was something about the moonlight that night.

There was something about the lack of it the next week. When you went back again, this time looking for an escape from your boyfriend. It wasn't going anywhere and you wanted to leave him. Get away from that cheater. As much as you could. So alcohol was being made the catalyst to the escapade. Till you saw him. Again.

Sitting in the farthest booth with nothing but a candle lighting up his corner, he seemingly was in a meditative state, studying something on the table in front of him. Those arms form the previous week were covered in a full sleeves navy blue t-shirt today. Those eyes were behind thick-rimmed glasses, looking down at the contents of the table, giving you enough time to study them from where you sat. At least that's what you thought till they shot back up to look directly at you. No one but you.

You wanted to look away, but the grasp of those quartz was strong on you until your body had to drag you away from their hold.

You visited every other night since then, trying to steal a look of that dark stranger who would sit in the invisible corners, alone, carrying out whatever it was that he did. You? You kept finding yourself feeling guilty of coming back for him, having thoughts of his skin brushing over yours, that stubble grazing your skin, those eyes stripping you naked and making your core pool just by their stare.

All those weeks and you both kept your distance. Physically.

Tonight it is the same old routine. He sits in the corner with that candle as his only company. You are on the bar with the Long Island sitting in front of you. The drops trickle down the glass, your eyes following them, trying to erase the fight you had last night when you left that excuse of a man for good.

Right now, it's just you and your drink, slowly diluting everything that is sullen. You are aware of the eyes that linger over your form clad in this blue dress with crisp straps over your shoulders, the fabric going down no more than your thighs. A man or two do try to sit next to you, buy your drinks for you, take you out for the night. The same men mutter curses when you show no interest.

It's all fine till you see your boyfriend- ex- come and sit down next to you, smelling of whiskey too heavy for you to stand the odour. He wants your attention. He wants your body. He wants you back.

You hold your thin blue shawl closer to you, covering your arms as much as you can. Your ex tries to hold them, making you shrug him away- not before he gets hold of your shawl, yanking it away from your body- get up and walk away from the bar. It is hard to find a way through the crowd, that might as well just be solid shadows in true hall. You can feel him calling out from behind you, forcing you to go up the stairs, past the people rubbing on to each other in the night.

He does catch up, grabbing your arm and not letting go till he has you pushed against the wall. You push him away, wanting to get his body away from you as much as you can, only for him to press it more against you, the bulge in his pants trying to press in between your legs.

When the nerves cannot take it anymore, your hand takes it unto itself to punch him across the face, catching him off guard.

You think that should be enough to get you away from him, clearly misjudging his reflexes to grab you by your throat, ram you against the wall and slap his back of the hand right across your face.

The impact leaves a tingling sensation on your cheek and a ringing in your ear. Your focus on the heat rising up in the hurt flesh does not let you observe the presence of another man taking your ex by the collar before throwing him a few feet away with a single smack to his face.

The sound of that man dropping catches you off guard, making you look up at the familiar man of the moonlight, standing with his back to you- or rather, standing between you and trouble.

It doesn't take much more for the ex to scurry away with a bloodied nose and curses under his breath, leaving you and that man alone.

A woman comes up, calling this man Erik, asking if everything was okay. Erik, turning to look at you trying to find the gravity under your feet and hands, just nods before letting his hand curl up around your arms as slowly as possible- so as not to startle you- and get you up on your feet.

No words are exchanged as he walks you through the corridor up another flight of stairs where soft yellow lights seem to illuminate a little living room past the main door. It has a warm scent of apple pie and roasted chicken, probably coming from the kitchen right next to it. Across the living room, without any doors or blinders is the bedroom housing a bed with grey sheets, clean to the corners.

It's nice.

Erik leaves your arm once you're standing by the sofa and goes to the bathroom to get his first aid kit.

It is a task to decide whether you sit down or not. But you do it anyway, being careful not to get anything on the flower-patterned beige fabric.

It doesn't take Eric long to come back with a plastic box in his hand, walking to sit down next to you to begin the ritual of tending to your wounds.

Jasmine. He smells of jasmine and...and something earthy that you can't put your finger on. His eyes follow the cotton dipped in clean water before coming to rest on your cheek. And then your eyes.

You turn your cheek to him giving him permission to take care of it for you. And so he does. The cold moist touch is gentle, though it makes the wound sting. Makes you close your eyes and draw in a troubled breath. All of it is followed by a cool breeze fanning the burn, soothing it, making it calm down.

It's Erik, easing the pain with his breath.

Once the wound is clean, he dabs a bit of clinical spirit.

You don't even know when it happens but you are leaning into his touch more and more with every passing second till you find yourself waking up from a trance with his fingers pushing away your hair from your face and behind your ear.

Close. He is close to you. The original art of what you had been imagining of facing for so many days, right in front of you. Lips, perfect and parted. Breaths, easy. Eyes, heavy and dark. Intentions, deliciously questionable.

It isn't hard to miss- or he is making it rather obvious- when Erik keeps shifting his gaze from your eyes to your lips.

You too, are starting to question every microscopic thought you have had about those lips and the curiosity of what they taste like. Being the cat who does not want to be left in the dark, you shift your weight and close the distance with your lips landing on his.

It's a hurried decision that you're still wondering if you'll regret when you feel his lips take over, opening up to deepen the aftertaste of your curiosity.

Sweet and salty. That's what he tastes like. With just a hint of alcohol. Craving for more, you let your tongue get a lick of him. And once he figures that, his own tongue is letting itself into your mouth to reign over every corner it can find.

Before you know it, his hands are holding your waist, his fingers wanting to dig beyond the blue fabric over your body as his chest pulls you down and his leg plants itself between your thighs, letting you grind your pulsating core against the surface of his jeans.

The once tender kiss has deepened into a lustful need for more demanding exploration. His one hand lingers on your jaw, the other delves into the lower regions, ricocheting under your dress, teasing the hairs on your thigh rising to welcome his touch.

His tongue has managed to grab an illicit moan out of you, which you reciprocate with a provoking bite to his lips between your teeth.

Erik's eyes go hauntingly dark at your audacity to so graciously let him know what all you are open to. It has never been normalcy for him to give up the strings to someone else to let him be played. But just this once, he wants to test the waters, wants to see where this goes.

He helps you get off his shirt and you pause for a second to watch in awe the markings on his body. Perfectly patterned ridges run across his chest at intervals that you are allowed to touch and even scrutinise under your fingers because your touch is this gentle breeze of a drug that Erik slowly seems to be getting high on. Not too long before you have undone his pants and freed his length that has been waiting for you for quite a while.

The first stroke is but a pleasant kiss by your fingers, making Erik's cock twitch. The precum is spread over the length and a few languid strokes by your hands later, his breath is fluttering a bit before a considerable tremble is felt as your mouth takes in as much of his length as it can, letting your tongue play with it, your head bob over it with a slow and steady rhythm and uncontrollable low moans that escape your throat. What your mouth can't cover is taken care of by your hand, stroking the length, leaving no part untouched. It is a pleasure to hear him audibly shudder when your tongue plays with his frenum, making him see dark spots behind his eyes.

It is an entirely new spectrum of pleasure for Erik, and yet his hands twitch for taking the reins. He wants more. He wants to take control. He moves your hair out of your way before taking your jaw in his hand, making your leave his cock. Before you can gather, he is lifting you by your thighs, putting you over his shoulder and walking towards the bedroom to drop you on the fluffed up mattress.

Your dress is unzipped and thrown on the floor, your panties practically torn before his fingers are finding your folds, diving into your wetness, locating your clit and rubbing it to light up all the dark corners of your body. Your cunt is at his mercy now. And that's not the only thing that gives you pleasure, Erik makes sure of that. His tongue is giving all the attention to your nipples in turn, making them perk up with more of his sucking and nibbling, having a terribly good effect on your already sensitive core.

When a high note of simmering pleasure escaping you reaches his ears, Erik stops the play, much to your dismay, for not wanting that pleasure to end just here. Instead, he takes your legs- which still have the boots on- and lifts them up over his shoulders, biting and sucking on them all the while. You will not be surprised if you find bruises where he is digging his teeth. These are the only types of bruises you'd want anyway.

His length teases your folds, making you arch up into him, asking him through your eyes to satiate your hunger.

You want more.

And you want it all.

Erik seems to know that desperation lurking in your eyes for he pushes his cock in, forcing out a gasp from you at his size, at the same time making you grab at iron rails of the headboard in the name of gravity to get you through the first few seconds.

Once he feels you having adjusted to his length, Erik nearly pulls himself all out before going back in with the right about of jerk, making you go for the headboard again. The pace is picked without much room for a love-making trot, skipping straight to the highs of watching his form smile down on you while his hips slapping with your ass cheeks and you let out rhythmic moans, instantly finding yourself pooling up and shuddering under your orgasm; the high being carried out when he rides you right through it.

But Erik isn’t done yet.

He flips you on your stomach, slapping your ass before digging his fingers in your hips to drag it close to his pulsating cock yearning for more.

You are still catching your breaths and feeling the sweat rise behind your neck when you feel his throbbing length enter you once again, and your body with a will of its own arching back into him.

Why, he has his claws into you. Your ass cheeks feeling his nails dig into them as he once again slamming himself into you, this time, creating fireworks behind your eyes. The pace is torturous and tactile at the same time. Your breasts dance at every impact, your walls lighting up whenever he hit the right spots, again and again, his grunts and groans vibrating right into your core. You can no longer hold your cries back, letting them out with the fast rhythm he is riding you on.

Yes.

You want this. You crave this. You crave him. Inside you. Over you. Everywhere in this moment of your existence.

The pace fastens as Erik reaches his own high, his length gradually swelling up inside you. You too are close once again, your cries rising higher as the edge of that dam approaches, letting your fingers find your clit to come with him. And as the pace gets sloppier and the cries from the both of you more feral, asking for more, the orgasm hits in its prime, bringing Erik down on you as his legs shudder and your knees, in turn, give way, falling flat over the mattress, glowing with the mix of sex sweat and orgasmic high.

A few moments pass in silence when both of you catch your breaths and find parts of each other under your fingers that want reassurance through touch.

Satisfaction.

Nothing like this has been achieved before. And it only makes you question what all can be explored in the future.

But for now, it's bliss. Pure bliss.

Erik slowly pulls out of you and goes to the bathroom while you take the opportunity to turn and get up, feeling your core throb at the fresh ache it experiences in there. Within no time, he's out again, this time with a towel that seems to be wet, cleaning the aftermath of the pleasure between your legs. The fabric feels warm and soft, cleaning every last trace and being dumped into the laundry basket by the bathroom door.

This part, you are unsure of.

Stay?

Or walk away?

The deed has been done.

You know what you want, though. It's the question of what he desires.

The duvet he pulls over you while planting himself in the bed next to you seems to answer the question.

And as if to make double-sure on it, Erik lets his hand grab your waist and drag you close to marr your swollen lips with a tongue-tied kiss.

You are lying on his chest, feeling the ridges under your skin and fingers while his arm embraces you, soothingly rubbing on the injured cheek.

The sounds from the club downstairs are muffled, the lights off, letting the moonlight creep in and be bedfellows for the night, dancing on your skins jovially.

There really is something about the lights tonight.


End file.
